


Dragged Away

by robynthemagpie_writes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anxiety, Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Ficlet, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, aziraphale has trauma from the war, dont know what else please let me know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 14:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes
Summary: The first war. The first battle. An angel fights and tries to save another before he can become a demon.





	Dragged Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/gifts).

> This is an answering ficlet in response to LurLur's wonderful Whumptober offering of the same name, which was the entire inspiration behind this piece. PLEASE READ THE ORIGINAL PIECE HERE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851664/chapters/49738775#workskin  
It is amazing.

For the first time in memory, a storm was gathering in the Kingdom of Heaven. Purplish-grey walls of cloud arced overhead and the air felt heavy and slow, charged with the building potential of impending thunder. 

The gathered angelic hosts faced each other across the expanse before the gates of Her Holy Domain. They looked strange there, these opposing forces, barely discernible from each other and looking as though they should simply merge like tributaries in a stream and flow on together. They were grouped into battle formations, ready for the first sign of friction, both sides hoping for a peaceful end to their troubles, both sides believing their cause to be just. They were all waiting. Waiting to know if the storm would break or roll away into the distance. Thousands upon thousands of angels held their breath. 

The Angel Aziraphale took up his position in front of his platoon and surveyed the field before him. He knew these angels, both those at his back and those before him, and he prayed to the Almighty for a swift resolution to these talks. He did not like the uncertainty that had been plaguing their lives of late and he longed for peace to be restored. He did not relish the thought of what may come, far from it, but he hated the unrest. Either way, this needed to be decided today. 

He was not tall, nor especially brawny like so many of the other angels assigned to leadership ranks, but he was straight backed with a stockiness suggestive of strength. His hair was a shock of white-gold wavy curls that just touched his shoulders, and his blue eyes shone with a keen intensity. Not many angels could meet those eyes for long. They seemed to see inside you in a way that no other ever had before. It was a sensation that dulled with time and acquaintance, but even some of the senior Archangels found themselves disposed to look away after a short while in Aziraphale’s company. 

His face at rest always gave the impression of intelligence, but it was his expressions which showed that there was not only intelligence there, but wisdom also. It was true. Aziraphale was wise, but not proud, compassionate, but not soft, brave, but not rash. He had a confidence about himself which inspired the same in others. It was not arrogance; it was trust in his own ability, faith in himself. Above all of these things, he was loyal. He placed his trust and his belief in the goodness of The Lord, and swore to stand by Her side in this and every judgement to come. These were the qualities that had won him the right to stand where he stood now, to serve as an example of perfect obedience to God to those that he led.

Aziraphale stood still, waiting. He shifted the weight of the sword in his hand, clasped his fingers against the ring that nestled unfamiliarly upon the littlest one on his right hand. The sword and the ring had been gifted to all those assigned to leadership in a ceremony before the whole army. They had knelt and they had vowed to serve Her well and justly. He gripped the handle of the sword more tightly. Decide. Choose. Make your judgement.

The universe held its breath with them. Thousands and thousands waited. 

When it happened, it happened all at once. It was like a blow to the back of his head, and the stars exploded behind his eyes, and Aziraphale knew what it meant. The order had been given. I will not be questioned. I will not be defied. You Fall, or you die. 

He had his orders. He knew his role. He’d made his vow.

‘CHARGE!’

Aziraphale raised the sword and found it ablaze in his hand. He surged forward with the Host of Heaven behind him and plunged forward into Hell.

There had never been a war before. This was the very first. He didn’t know what he had expected, but he knew for certain that it had not been this. Screams tore through the air around him, his ears rang painfully with the screech of metal on metal as sword met spear and knife, arrows whistling and tickering against each other in the air, adding to the cacophony of shrieks and cries. It was too loud to deafen. It rang in his head and he knew then that he would never stop hearing it. 

Smoke and soot from countless flaming swords filled his nostrils only to be replaced by something worse: the stench of blood and burning flesh, wounds being cauterised by white hot metal even as they were inflicted. Blood-spattered feathers were carried away on the winds that whipped across the battlefield now, the storm above raging with Her wrath. Lightning flashed, illuminating the crush of bodies as both sides pressed forwards, trying to gain the advantage and win through. 

Aziraphale was in a daze. This was a nightmare, surely? He was right in the middle of it all, though he had no idea how he had gotten there. He looked down at the sword in his hand and saw it edged with charred blood. Whose blood? His platoon were scattered and he could not tell friend from foe. They all looked the same to him; chaos ruled now. He was vaguely aware of the ground at the feet of the Fallen ones writhing and melting beneath them, and could see them being sucked down to the depths Below. Could anywhere be worse than here right now?

What should he do? He knew what he had sworn to do, he knew what his duty was, he knew what was expected of him. But he looked at the devastation all around himself, the blood and the feathers and the broken angels all around, and he did not know what to do. He felt frozen, like ice in the midst of an erupting volcano. He had to do something, he had to make it stop. This could not be the answer he had prayed for? Please, God, that he was not responsible for this.

The world swam around him, distorted and hazy, sounds garbled and warped. He crashed to his knees in the filth of their conflict and felt his breaths coming short and sharp, his throat crushing in on itself. It all went dark.

Sounds returned, sharper than ever, the carnage playing out before his eyes in more vivid colour than he had ever known. He had not been unconscious for long, he did not think. Aziraphale shook his head and lifted himself to a kneeling position to better survey the landscape around him, grasping at the flaming sword where it lay upon the ground. He had to do something to help them, all of them. 

The numbers of the Damned were thinning now; Aziraphale thought that he could see the difference between the sides now. The Almighty was withdrawing her touch from those who had petitioned Her and they were beginning to lose their shine. 

He scanned the field before him and his eye was caught at once by an angel to his right, long red hair whisking about him in the winds as he rushed forward with hands held up in a gesture of peace, desperation written in every line of his face as he screamed out to his brethren. Aziraphale could see the blackening tips of his wings from here, and the cracked voice carried on the storm.

‘ Brothers! Please, stop! Do not fight! Forgiveness isn’t beyond our reach!’

_ I need to help him, _ Aziraphale thought to himself.  _ I need to save him. I can make this one thing right. _

He was on his feet then, sword flailing wildly as he ran, desperately dodging the fallen bodies and the craters on the ground before him. He nearly lost his footing in a congealing pool but managed to stay upright, surging forward.

_ I can save you. _

“Come on don’t give up!’ the tall, slim angel was begging of another Fallen one.

_ Keep fighting it, we can do this together _ .

Aziraphale shouldered an angel aside, he did not know or care whether Divine or Damned, and begged his aching legs to move. He had become fixated, focused entirely on that one falling angel with the long red hair and eyes full of regret. He was so close now. He would make this bloody mess right. 

The angel was trying to help the Fallen around him, trying to pull them back up into Heaven. Aziraphale was so close now, could see the dark line of drying blood smeared across that sharp cheekbone.

When it happened, it happened all at once.

Another of the Fallen, falling through the boiling ground, had grabbed onto the tall angel’s leg, and  _ pulled _ . 

Aziraphale  _ leapt _ , screaming wordlessly, arms outstretched, clawing at the air to reach for those vanishing fingertips as they scrabbled at the edge of the scarred earth. 

But he never made it.

Something large and firm caught him in the abdomen, throwing him backwards, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him sprawled gasping in the dirt. Winded and stunned, Aziraphale made to reach for his sword but found himself hurled to his feet, arm pinned up his back.

Shocked, Aziraphale looked up into the sharp, violet eyes of the Archangel Gabriel. 

‘Let me go!’ he spat up at his superior. ‘He is repentant! He can be saved! She will show him mercy!’

‘Leave it alone,’ hissed Gabriel into his ear. ‘Re-join your platoon, there is nothing you can do here.’

‘No! I can save him! Let me go! I have to save him!’

‘He made his decision, like all the rest, and She made hers. Enough!’

Aziraphale was strong, but Gabriel was stronger. He reached desperately at the air and scrambled with his feet to gain purchase and push forward, but the Archangel grasped him under the elbow and dragged him to the waiting arms of his personal guard.

Aziraphale didn’t remember much about what had happened after that.  _ Shell shock _ was what they would have called it later on. He pushed it aside when he finally came back to himself, would not allow himself to see the face of that red-haired angel, the fear and remorse in his eyes as he was dragged below. 

It came back to him though, flashes of it. It ate into him like a worm, undermining him from the inside out. He had been so sure, so certain in his choices, his beliefs. He had been unflappable, strong and sound.

Not so any more. He became nervous, anxious of his decisions, sure that he would trip up again one day and let someone else down. Even when he finally gave away that hateful flaming sword he could not find peace in himself about it. Would he always second guess himself like this? Would he always have to check himself, seek validation of his decisions elsewhere? He grew softer, weary. He no longer felt up to the task at hand, regardless of what it was. There were cracks in him now, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever fill them up. It was exhausting.

He had vowed to serve justly that day before the world had fallen apart. He had seen no justice before him then. He would keep his vow and find a way to trust his heart once more. He would find that angel. One day he would explain.


End file.
